"Dick!" it called. "Dick! Listen carefully . . . ." It was the voice of Nita!
"Dick, I am allowed to say only what has been written for me," she went on steadily, deliberately. "Listen carefully, for I may not repeat."
Wentworth's hands reached out impotently toward the radio. He shook his head, forcing sharp attention on Nita's words as she went on in that same deliberate way.
"These are the orders of Munro," she said. "At precisely nine-thirty, the Spider will enter the end of the Park Avenue traffic tunnel at Fortieth Street, on foot. He will walk through this tunnel to the south end."
Wentworth was only half-listening to the words, though his mind flashed ahead to the picture. That short tunnel, which once had been utilized by street cars, was used now as an auxiliary passage to carry traffic from the Park Avenue ramps that wove around Grand Central Terminal. After dark, it was closed, but only by a series of signs placed across its mouth. In its six blocks of darkness, the Spider must walk, and somewhere inside he would meet death!
That much was clear, but Wentworth's attention had been caught by something strange in Nita's manner of speech. He was alert for some secret message from her, under the cover of those words; a hope that had sagged dismally when she said she was reading a written message. But there was that strange something in her speech. Some of her words were drawled slowly, but others had a quick, staccato delivery. There was a rhythm there . . . .
"If the Spider fails to do this, I am to be killed, Dick," Nita went on, drawling now. "Bu-ut Mu-unro ha-as," Three slow words, now suddenly three swift words, staccato, sharp, "allowed me to s-a-ay thi-is a-added thing. Fo-orget abo-out me-e, Dick, and don't te-ell the-e Spi-der. Signing off. Goodnight, dear and . . . good-by!"
The hum of the radio station died out, and Jackson was instantly on the wire, calling police headquarters, but Wentworth stared before him blankly. Three slow words, three quick words, three slow words. Three dashes . . . Why, good God, Nita had been signaling in Morse code!
WENTWORTH whipped about to the sonograph and rapidly made the necessary adjustments to repeat the message. Once more Nita's curiously rhythmic voice sounded in his ears . . . but instead of clearing, Wentworth's bewilderment increased. He knew now that it was in Morse code, her message, and he knew what she had signaled, but it meant nothing, nothing at all.
Nita's secret message was: "S. O. S."
Jackson whipped about from the telephone. "Police got the message. The directional reading is one-eighty—three-sixty."
Ram Singh strode into the drawing room, his eyes gleaming fiercely. "Wan, sahib, let us go and destroy them!" he cried. "They are due south of us!"
"Or due north," Wentworth murmured. "You mean that your reading was . . ."
"One-eighty-three-sixty, sahib!"
Wentworth ripped out a harsh oath. Due to some accident, or design on the part of Munro, the two readings had told absolutely nothing of the exact location from which the station had broadcast. A north-south line through police headquarters and his own home would lead out over the water of the harbor and across Staten Island, into New Jersey, northward . . . Wentworth whipped about suddenly.
"Jackson, get Kirkpatrick on the phone!" he cried. "Tell him that Munro had access to the room in which the men were questioned, or overheard our conversation in the hallway! He knew that we were going to attempt a sonograph identification, and for that reason he did not send the message to me himself, but had it radioed by Nita! Tell him to make sure that none of Munro's witnesses escaped!"
Wentworth bounded toward his chambers, flinging an order at Ram Singh, "Get over to the pier, and warm up the motor of that seaplane!" he snapped. "Phone Jenkyns a number at which he can call you. Once the motor is warmed, keep it idling and stand by that phone!"
In his room, Wentworth made swift preparations. He snapped two broad rubber bands about his wrist and thrust under them a light, powerful automatic. His eyes were glittering like ice, and he whipped about when Jackson stepped inside the room. Jackson's broad face was set in stony lines.
"Mr. Kirkpatrick had left headquarters, sir," he reported. "I gave the message to Sergeant Reams. Reams was sore as hell, sir. Toley let the witnesses go home for Thanksgiving dinner. Police were sent to guard them . . . and one of the witnesses murdered his police guard and escaped!"
Wentworth choked down the oath that leaped to his lips. Always just too late! The man had been Munro without a doubt . . . and they had grasped only another phantom. Give that man ten minutes alone, and he would be a totally different character . . . . He laughed sharply.
"But they will have a sonograph chart of his voice!" he cried. "Jackson, you will stay here and await orders by telephone."
Jackson made no response. His faithful blue eyes looked stubborn. "Begging the Major's pardon, sir," he said stolidly, "Is the Major planning to . . . walk through that tunnel?"
Wentworth was suddenly very quiet. "Don't be a fool, Jackson," he said calmly. "It is the price Munro has placed upon Miss Nita's life!"
"Does the Major trust Munro?"
Wentworth shook his head, and a slow, grim smile built about his lips. "No, Jackson . . . but Munro will be there to make sure the Spider dies! He may . . . find matters not too much to his liking! He worked pretty cleverly, giving me too little time to make preparations to trap him. His own plans are undoubtedly fully arranged!"
Jackson stood very stiffly, "Begging the Major's pardon, sir, I wish to volunteer."
"You what?"
"I wish to volunteer, sir, to walk through that tunnel." Jackson's eyes burned steadily into Wentworth's. "You know, sir, that it is certain death. You . . . The Major won't stand a chance!"
Wentworth's eyes softened, and he dropped a hand on Jackson's shoulder warmly. "Thanks, Jackson," he said quietly. "You can serve me best here." His heart swelled at the loyalty of this man who served him, as thoughtless of self as was the Spider in his service to humanity. He shook Jackson's broad shoulder a little. "I've been in these deathtraps before, man, and . . . ."
Jenkyns was at the door suddenly. "Master Richie," he mumbled. "Commissioner Kirkpatrick is here. He wants you at once . . . ."
Wentworth stiffened. He had no time to talk to Kirkpatrick. Minutes were flying . . . and he had a rendezvous with death.
"Tell him . . ." he began harshly, and cut off. Kirkpatrick was standing just behind Jenkyns.
"Glad I found you in time, Dick," he said quietly. "I have a favor to ask of you!"
Wentworth moved a hand impatiently. "Any other time, Kirk," he said sharply.
"You heard that radio message from Nita, didn't you? Do you think I can let the Spider walk into a trap like that, and not be there to help him?"
Kirkpatrick's blue eyes did not waver at all, and there was grimness in the thrust of his jaw. "The Spider is a law-breaker," he said stolidly. "A killer . . . I am swearing you in as a deputy, Dick. I am calling on you as an officer of the law demanding the support of a citizen as he has the right to do. You will help me trap the Spider!"
Wentworth laughed sharply. "You're crazy, Kirkpatrick!" he said violently. "The Spider is risking his life to save Nita! He called me a few moments after that radio message and promised that he would. And you ask me to help trap him? You're mad!"
Kirkpatrick's jaw was stubborn, and his hand moved at his side. Four uniformed policemen stepped into sight beside him, guns in their fists! Wentworth knew then that he would have no choice of refusing! But, damn it, this was his one chance to save Nita, to snare Munro! Suppose he made a break for it, even in the face of those four guns? Then Kirkpatrick would track him down, and arrest him . . . as the Spider!
And time was flying. Within a little more than twenty minutes, the Spider must start his stroll into that tunnel of death!
"I intend to settle this matter once and for all," Kirkpatrick said harshly. "If you are the Spider, then the Spider cannot appear if you are with me. Dick, you will either do as I say, or I shall clamp you into a cell und
er protective arrest!"
He frowned. "Well, Dick . . . which is it going to be? Will you help me trap the Spider, or shall I put you in my private escape-proof cell!"
Wentworth's eyes held the shine of desperation, but his voice was very quiet.
"A man would make but one choice, Kirkpatrick," he said curtly. "Where is this cell of yours?"
Chapter Nine
Hell Below
KIRKPATRICK'S face darkened at Wentworth's words, but he did not waver from his resolved purpose. He spoke crisply, and two of the uniformed men sidled into Wentworth's room and moved toward him, guns and handcuffs ready. Wentworth was aware that Jackson was watching narrowly for a signal, and he shook his head slightly. He knew that Kirkpatrick's patience had worn thin. There had been too many recent coincidental appearances of Wentworth on the scene of the Spider's operations. Moreover, Wentworth dared not risk receiving a wound! Too much depended on his remaining ready for the battle. But the time was so cruelly short . . . . Twenty minutes!
"All right," he said angrily, "come on with the handcuffs! Put me in this escape-proof cell of yours, and get on with your trapping of the Spider! If only I had a chance to warn him!"
The police snapped on the handcuffs and Jackson watched with a puzzled air; then resolution formed in his face.
"I'm sure, sir," he said, "that the Spider would expect some such trap as this, I'm quite sure it won't keep him from appearing!"
Wentworth's head whipped toward his man, and he read Jackson's intention in his direct blue gaze. Wentworth's voice still seemed angry. "You will not leave this apartment, Jackson!" he snapped. "I won't have the Spider thinking we are parties to the trap! You understand, Jackson, no matter how badly you wish to help the Spider, you will not leave this apartment—or you will leave my service!"
Jackson's face went pale. His voice was stolid, "Yes, Major!"
Wentworth jerked at the handcuffs, "Come along! Let's see this cell—or you'll be late for your treachery, Kirkpatrick!"
Worry gnawed at the back of Wentworth's brain. Jackson's intention had been completely plain. It had been his intention to don the robes of the Spider and walk into that tunnel of death, as he had volunteered to do before Kirkpatrick's arrival. It would be fatal, in more ways than one. Jackson was a grand fighting man, but he lacked the split-second brain of the Master of Men! If he escaped the attack of the criminals he would surely fall into the hands of the police, and that would be as disastrous as if Wentworth himself were captured in the robes of the Spider!
Wentworth had made the choice of the cell with full knowledge that he might be dooming himself irrevocably. But if he went with Kirkpatrick, there would be no chance at all to appear as the Spider and Wentworth had not yet given up hope of keeping his rendezvous with death! He maintained a hard silence while the police took him down in the elevator and out where Kirkpatrick's car waited. Wentworth stole a glance at the clock on the dashboard of the car. Already quarter past nine! Fifteen minutes . . . .
"My home," Kirkpatrick told the driver quietly, "and make it fast, Cassidy."
Wentworth said nothing. His eyes bored straight ahead, and the police were close about him, with ready guns. He was tempted to strike out about him; to break from custody and take his chances later with convincing Kirkpatrick that his escape had been made in order to warn the Spider. No, better to wait, until he had seen this escape-proof cell of Kirkpatrick's! Strange that he had ordered the driver to his home . . . . He tried to keep his eyes off the slow jumping of the dashboard clock hands.
Wordlessly still, Kirkpatrick took Wentworth up the elevator to his own apartment, and now they were alone save for the driver, Cassidy. The man's pale blue eyes roved over Wentworth constantly, and Wentworth studied him secretly. Evidently, this man was to be his guard. His hopes rose . . . . One man on guard!
When he saw the cell, his heart fell. He remembered now that Kirkpatrick had mentioned once before a plan for safeguarding witnesses against criminal assault; the next time one was threatened, he would keep that witness in his own home! And this cell had been prepared for that purpose. It had no window, and only one door, which opened into Kirkpatrick's bedroom. That door was reinforced by a second gate of tool steel. And the locks were intricate and shielded by a broad plate of armor steel that precluded the possibility of Wentworth reaching it!
When the door clanged shut, Kirkpatrick stepped back from the grating, and his eyes pleaded for understanding.
"I have to do this, Dick," he said quietly. "Cassidy, I hold you entirely responsible." He touched a button, and a shield of bullet-proof glass slid out of floor sockets. "You will stand behind this shield, Cassidy," he said. "You will not stir from this spot until I return. Dick, it won't be long. In ten minutes, the Spider will appear . . . or I will know that you are the Spider!"
"And if anything should prevent the Spider from appearing," Wentworth said quietly, "you will have been responsible for Nita's death! Remember that!"
Kirkpatrick's face was grey and drawn. "The Spider always keeps his word," he said . . . and strode from the room.
Behind the shield, Cassidy stood rigidly, gun in hand, and his eyes rested a little fearfully upon Richard Wentworth. Wentworth stood motionless also. There was so little time. But, as Kirkpatrick had said, the Spider always kept his word! There had to be a way out. He still had the small automatic strapped to his arm; police had found and removed the others, but that glass shield prevented him from using the gun. Short of Cassidy's death, there was no way he could escape without the knowledge of Kirkpatrick, sooner or later; and that knowledge would be more condemnatory than if the Spider failed to appear! But Nita . . . God!
Wentworth did not delude himself with the hope that Munro would turn Nita free even if the Spider did appear, but it was his one last chance to make contact with a man as fleeting as a handful of smoke. He had to be there; had to capture Munro . . . had to. Wentworth's eyes were half-veiled by their lids as he studied Cassidy. There was still a way, perhaps. Cassidy was a genius at driving, but Wentworth remembered he had not done so well as a patrolman. Cassidy was frowning now with hard concentration as he gripped his revolver behind the shield.
Yes, Wentworth had one slim chance. He had battled against the will of master hypnotists himself; and had never succumbed unless drugs had been used upon him previously. It was the power of his mind against theirs, and it was the mind of the Master of Men that triumphed. That he had the personal magnitude for command he had proved time and again; every leader has to that extent the potency of the hypnotist. But could he . . . could he hypnotize Cassidy! Wentworth knew the theory of the art perfectly, though he had not himself practiced it. In the end, it reduced itself to tiring the optic nerves of the patient and overbearing his will power with your own!
Wentworth slipped a key ring from his vest pocket and began to twirl it around and around his finger. It caught facets of bright light, twinkled them against the bullet-proof screen behind which Cassidy stood. He twirled . . . and presently, he saw that Cassidy's eyes were following the flash of the keys. It was inevitable in a scene so otherwise devoid of interest that he should watch movement. For a long minute after minute, Wentworth twirled the key. Slowly, he lifted his hand toward his face . . . and Cassidy's eyes followed!
Wentworth waited until the keys were twirling squarely before his own eyes, and then he swallowed the keys with his hand. He had put his own gaze on Cassidy's, and he widened his eyes, concentrated all his will power on holding Cassidy's stare with his own! He saw Cassidy shiver a little; saw him try to took away . . . and fail!
Wentworth's eyes blazed with the living force of his will, and he flung that thunderbolt of his personality against the weaker mind of the man who confronted him, beyond that screen of glass. Presently, Wentworth's lips began to move, and his sibilant whisper reached across the room.
"My will above yours, Cassidy," he whispered. "My will is stronger than yours. You must obey me! You wish to obey me. Cassidy, you wish t
o obey me!"
Cassidy's lips quivered. His eyes were strained wide, and the gun was held as solidly as rock in his hand.
"Cassidy!" Wentworth's voice had the command of a trumpet. "Cassidy, you must obey me!"
Cassidy's lips moved again. His voice came out woodenly, "I—I must obey you!" he stammered.
Wentworth felt the wetness of perspiration upon his forehead, and he pushed out of his mind all thought other than domination of this man before him. He willed himself to forget the rapid flight of the minutes, and how much that could mean to him.
"We have been fighting men who deal in fire, Cassidy," Wentworth said softly. "They have set this place on fire. You can feel the heat of it. That is why the perspiration is on your forehead. That is why you are afraid, Cassidy. The place is on fire!"
Fright stiffened Cassidy's face. He said, shakily, "The place is on fire!"
"You must release your prisoner, Cassidy," Wentworth whispered. "If you let him burn to death, it would be murder! Kirkpatrick would fire you and you would never drive his car again. You would never again drive a car with the siren shrieking. So you must open the cell, Cassidy. Then you certainly will be a real hero!"
Cassidy went through a struggle then, and Wentworth's eyes burned and burned into his.
"You feel the heat," he said.
"I feel the heat!" Cassidy echoed. "The place is on fire."
"The place is on fire!"
"Cassidy," Wentworth ordered crisply, "unlock the cell and save the prisoner from the fire!"
Cassidy's lips opened. He shuddered . . . and stepped slowly around the glass shield. "Unlock the cell," he repeated woodenly!
Seconds later, the steel lattice swung open—and Wentworth stepped outside, a free man! He did not take his eyes from Cassidy.
THE SPIDER-City of Doom Page 27